I often remark that I should take my own advice more often. In a previous post I suggested ways to spur writing ideas. Sometimes you simply need a break. The monotony of washing dishes, folding laundry, cooking heck, doing a puzzle or gardening might be exactly how a writer works though a block.
Don’t believe me? Read this…
“I threw my hands up over my head as I paced the kitchen floor, wearing circles in the linoleum. They slapped back down at my side. I thought about eating. We missed dinner. I resorted to making my child a Fluffernutter, the one sandwich that can be considered both a meal and dessert, before sending Emily to bed for the night. The loving mommy façade broke as soon the door to her room closed, leaving me to finally deal with what happened with Mitch earlier in the evening.” ~Lindsey, “Imprint”
Now let’s change it up a bit. Replace the image you have in your mind of Lindsey with what I looked like. Here’s a cranky picture of MJA and me back in 2015 to help you out.
I’ve just finished cleaning something the puckwudgies left for me to do. In fact, I’ve cleaned everything trying to maintain a sense of accomplishment. It’s after lunchtime. I’m so freakin’ annoyed that I have writer’s block. The draft is almost done. I’m frustrated at the lack of progress when it should be easy. I want to get Imprint out for edits. I’m also hungry. There are no leftovers from the night before. The only thing to eat is a sandwich and gluten-free peanut butter and fluff is disgusting in comparison to the real thing. I can feel the negative spiral taking over. It’s going to affect the rest of the day. It doesn’t help that it’s been raining and my periwinkle blue kitchen walls make it like living inside of a cave without sunlight. I start to walk aimlessly from the fridge and back to the counter. What next? I don’t want my current mood to ruin everyone elses day. They’ll be home in a few hours. I lean against the peninsula of low cabinets, throwing my hands up over my head in defeat. There’s not even going to be enough time to write. My palms slap against my thighs. My head pops up. I see the white marshmallow container with it’s red cap and blue writing. It’s mocking me. I’m about to explode. I want to hit something the way that Lindsey slaps Mitch… Suddenly I am Lindsey in her kitchen, and by the time the bus are home I have the whole chapter written.
Go take a break and live a little. You may find that the silliest task spurs the next idea.